


jolie laide

by canardroublard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Marriage of Convenience, Multi, Past Drug Addiction, Relationship Status: It's Complicated, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, or that's what they're telling themselves at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2019-09-26 08:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: It's a strange term, Napoleon thinks.Jolie laide. "Pretty-ugly". A self-contradiction, banal words elevated in American ears by the exoticism of French. He's never understood why it's applied to girls with strong jawlines and sharp features. "Vogue girls". He's always thought it much more fitting for those with frayed and damaged edges on the inside. For those with tangled snarls of history but hope for the future.Maybe all three of them arejolie laide. In their own ways.(Or, the fashion AU which was supposed to be short but sprouted wings and flew away from me, featuring photographer Illya, model Gaby, and Napoleon, who brings everyone together.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saathi1013](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/gifts).



"Do we have to stay here?" Gaby asks, in a bit of a sulk, eyeing the New York skyline as they fly in with more indifference than Napoleon thinks anyone should be able to manage for their first time seeing it. "It's so...American."

"Still beats East Berlin, right? And besides, _I'm_ so American," Napoleon points out, giving her a little nudge with his elbow. Gaby rolls her eyes, huffing back a smile. "And you seem to like me just fine."

"I tolerate you. Why couldn't I work in Paris instead? I always wanted to go to Paris."

"You speak French?”

"No. I hate French." She turns her gaze out the window again, her expression sliding into something contemplative. "You're from here, yes?"

Napoleon shakes his head. "No, Rochester."

"What state is Rochester in?" Ever since Napoleon told her they were coming here, she's been trying to learn American geography. It's rather endearing, just how terrible she is at it.

"It's in New York."

With a frustrated noise, Gaby looks back at him. "I thought you said you _weren't_ from New York."

"I'm not from New York City. There's the city, and there's also New York state. The city is inside the state. It's like..." He tries to think of a European equivalent. "I don't know. That's just the way it is."

" _Americans_ ," Gaby mutters, rolling her eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Having Gaby roaming around his apartment is strange.

Intellectually, his plan for getting her out from behind the Berlin Wall had been an easy one. Marry her. Pretty much the only legal way, no jumping of barbed wire fences or digging of tunnels involved.

(Though sometimes he wonders if a zipline would've worked. The guards probably wouldn't have seen that coming, at least.)

And to keep up the pretense so no authorities, Soviet or American, get suspicious, of course she has to live with him for six months or a year or whatever before they can quietly divorce. They'd agreed on that back in East Berlin. Yet knowing that while he went back to his nice hotel in West Berlin and she her awful little flat above the garage is different from having her _here_ , hearing her pad barefoot across the hardwood floors and rummage through his kitchen cabinets while he's making phone calls.

Her head pokes around the doorway to his office, soon to be her bedroom, just as he's calling Illya.

"There's no food in the fridge," Gaby tells him, peevish.

"Yeah, because I've been in Europe for six months. Try the cupboard, there's probably some pasta and–"

"Hello?" cuts in Illya's voice, interrupting Napoleon.

"Hey, Illya, one sec." Pressing the mouthpiece to his shoulder, Napoleon turns back to Gaby. "–maybe some tomato sauce. Or you can wait until I'm done and we'll go out."

Grumbling, Gaby says she'll wait, though he gets the sense that she'll turn mutinous if he takes too long. But she's disappeared down the hall before he can voice his concerns, so he picks up the phone again. "Sorry, you still there?"

"Da. Is that her?"

"Yeah."

Illya clucks his tongue, chastising, making Napoleon roll his eyes. "You've gone to much trouble for this girl. She must be good. How did you get her out?"

"I, uh, married her."

"You married her," Illya repeats flatly.

"It was the easiest way. Practical," Napoleon insists, bristling at Illya's tone.

"Okay," Illya says, not sounding remotely convinced. "Cowboy, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"You don't always need to mother me," snaps Napoleon to his own immediate regret. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and reminds himself that Illya isn't out to get him. "Anyways," he sighs, "I'll bring her over tomorrow?"

They confirm a time and Napoleon gets Illya's new address, signing off with brief 'goodnights'. He only gets ten seconds of silence before the office door swings open again.

"Are you done? I'm hungry."

That settles it, no more time to wallow in the past. Napoleon pulls himself up and leads Gaby out to get pizza, determined that he'll make his fresh start work this time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Gaby is grumbly and irritated. She didn't sleep. Insomnia. At breakfast she turns her nose up at the toast, claiming she can't stand white bread.

Sometimes Napoleon really wonders why the hell he decided on _this_ new venture for his life. Or why he decided on her. She's not looking model-ready slouching at his table in an oversized sweater and cigarette pants with a hole in the knee. She looks crabby and tired and like she might snap one of his fingers in two if he told her to clean up a little.

Not like she's about to meet the person who could make or break her career or anything.

But he gets her caffeinated and out the door only fifteen minutes late, which normally wouldn't bother him much but he knows Illya is picky about punctuality. Napoleon has seen him send models away without a look because they arrived late.

This morning is off to a great start.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Illya doesn't send her away without a look.

He does, however, only give her _one_ look before turning his back on her and speaking to Napoleon, at full volume.

"She's too short. You didn't say she is this short."

Behind him, Gaby bristles. She does look rather absurdly short next to Illya. Like a Chihuahua rounding on a Great Dane. Still, Napoleon gives her a look, enough to keep her quiet while he tries to reason with Illya.

"She's not _that_ short. C'mon, put her in some heels and she'll be fine. Besides, I know you. I know that she's exactly what you wanted."

Still skeptical, Illya pauses, searching his expression. Napoleon returns his gaze. Bringing up the fact that he knows Illya is a bold choice, one that will either have Illya backing down or throwing him out.

"Hmm," Illya says. Then he turns away, back to Gaby, eyes scanning her body with dispassionate assessment. "Not bad."

Gaby rolls her eyes, glaring at Napoleon as if this is all his fault. Which it is in a way, he supposes, but he just smirks at her and she goes back to glaring at Illya. He steps closer, reaching for her elbow, and Gaby twitches back, reminding Napoleon that she's never done this before. She finds his eyes again, her expression questioning, and Napoleon nods to her. It must be reassuring enough, because Gaby allows Illya to tug her through a slow pivot.

Though she doesn't look too far from murdering him.

"Yes, yes, I can work with this," Illya murmurs.

"Wow, thanks," Gaby says, drippingly sweet. If Illya senses her sarcasm he ignores it.

Then Illya reaches for her face, to tilt her chin up, and for a fraction of a second Napoleon is certain that she actually is about to murder him.

" _Don't_ ," she hisses through her teeth, tossing her head like a spooked horse, dark chocolate mane rippling down her back.

Freezing, Illya's eyebrows jump in surprise. Then he frowns. "Stop being so difficult. Just stay still. I have a hundred girls I can get to take this job."

"Fine, then get one of them."

"Gaby..." Napoleon begins in a harried sigh, even as she storms past him out the door.

His great morning continues.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"God, he's such an asshole," Gaby mutters mutinously on the cab ride home. "Why did you think this would work?" Her chin bobs down as she affects a comedically deep, comedically Russian voice. "'I have a hundred girls for this job.' What a cunt," she adds, back to her own voice.

"Wow. Language, missy."

His teasing is met with some German profanities of rather astonishing creativity. Despite being on the receiving end of the insults, Napoleon is impressed.

"Look, I know Illya comes off a bit..."

"Infuriating?"

"Abrupt," Napoleon offers placatingly, "but trust me, once you get to know him he's a good guy. And he's the best photographer in the city. If you work for him for six months, you can work anywhere you want. Assuming he'll give you another chance, after today's little...rebellion."

At the chiding Gaby sighs, staring out the cab window at the rainy, grey streets of Manhattan, misery painted all over her face. Somehow, despite his annoyance, Napoleon feels a sudden wash of pity for her. He says nothing, though, sensing that she's busy in her own head. A long silence blankets the cab.

"I'll fix this," Gaby vows. "I can...I don't know, I'll go back tomorrow and talk to him. Or something. But I won't go back to East Berlin."

Startling, Napoleon glances over at her, finding her still staring out the window. Her shoulders are tight, like she's forcing herself not to look at him.

"Why would you go back?"

She shrugs. Still won't look at him. "You brought me over to work with him. If I can't, then why wouldn't you send me back?"

She's serious. Napoleon shakes himself, reeling. "You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to go. We'll figure something out. I'll figure something out; I'm the one who dragged you out of that garage and into this mess in the first place."

Finally Gaby looks at him, expression wavering with something that might be confusion, might be surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah, of course. Even if this doesn't work out, I'm not just going to ditch you."

She blinks, as if she can't quite comprehend what he's saying. For what is not the first time, he wonders about her history; wonders what caused this twenty-four-year-old to be a mechanic of all things, what caused her to ferociously bat away all questions about her family. All he knows for certain is that _someone_ hurt her. Badly. And he doesn't know that because she told him, he knows that because she has carefully fenced herself off with miles of barbed wire and barbed retorts.

She's still looking a bit stunned, though, so Napoleon tries for a joke. "I mean, after all, we're married, right?"

Gaby's expression shutters. "Oh, right." Then she goes back to staring out the window. In his head, Napoleon swears.

At this point, he just wants this morning to be over.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Illya calls him that night, after Gaby is already asleep on the pull-out sofa bed in the office, which is now mostly her bedroom.

"This morning did not go...well," Illya says blandly.

"Really? Never would've guessed."

The snort that carries across the line tells Napoleon all he needs to know about Illya's feelings towards his sarcasm.

"She...You said that she's what I wanted. Why? Her looks are good, but not exceptional. Not exactly _jolie-laide_ , is she? More just _jolie_. So must be some other reason."

Napoleon takes a moment to sort out his thoughts; how much he is willing to tell Illya. "Look, Illya, remember what you told me six months ago? When we met up and you told me you'd just ditched your last attempt at a muse? You said that you were sick of models who just acted like dolls. Pretty girls who wear pretty clothes. You wanted someone with spirit. 'Heart', I think you called it. And I can tell you, after spending a couple of months in East Berlin getting to know Gaby, that she is _all_ heart."

"I know someone else with a lot of heart," adds Illya, pointed.

Napoleon sighs. "You need a girl. This girl."

A skeptical hum emanates from Illya.

"C'mon, Peril. Just take her picture. Give her a day. I swear to God, you'll fall in love with her. The two of you are just both terrible at first impressions. You're a matched set."

Illya snorts, this time amused. "After all of this time, you should not still be able to talk me into your crazy plans. But fine, one more chance."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning Illya comes over to their place.

Gaby invites him in, both a bit stiff. Napoleon says hi but then disappears into his office so they can chat, though it won't be his office for much longer, since Gaby's stuff is all moved in and he has to climb over the sofa bed to get to his desk.

About twenty minutes later, having mostly managed to ignore the low conversation from the other room while he tries to catch up on organizing his finances from the Europe venture, Napoleon is interrupted when Gaby wanders into the room.

"How's it going?" he asks as she rummages through the suitcase she still hasn't bothered to unpack.

"Good. I think. He's very..." Gaby pauses, grasping for a word, and Napoleon laughs softly.

"Yeah, Illya is unique. You two going out?" He nods at the clothes in her hand.

Gaby shakes her head and resumes digging. "No, he wants to do some pictures here. Now. But he didn't say what he wants me to wear. Just 'not that'."

"Try your white dress."

Pausing again, Gaby eyes him. "Why?"

"Just trust me. I know what he likes."

With an indifferent shrug, Gaby pulls out the white shift dress. While she changes Napoleon goes to the living room, finding illya loading his camera.

"She's still too short," Illya says without looking up.

"So why are you still here, then?"

Illya scowls. "Doing you a favour."

"Since when do you do favours? Admit it, I was right. You like her."

"I did not say that," Illya insists, but in a weak mumble. Napoleon grins.

"So, what do you want me to do?" Gaby asks as she returns, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Napoleon looks to Illya, sees his eyes drop in a survey of her dress, and can tell by the way Illya scowls again, deeper, that he was right; Illya likes the dress. And doesn't want to; doesn't want to give Napoleon the credit. Some things never change.

"Just sit," Illya tells Gaby, indicating the arm chair against the wall. It's not hit by the direct sun of the windows or skylights, but those beams of light instead bounce off the walls and diffuse into a golden glow in the shadows. When Gaby settles into the chair, the lighting is perfect; flattering. Napoleon had almost forgotten how good Illya is at picking lighting. Then Gaby gives Napoleon a look, quizzical, which he returns as an encouraging smile.

In her first real moment of modelling, instead of casting a demur glance off to the side, as most models would, she stares right at Illya in naked challenge.

"Why are you doing that?" Illya emerges from behind his camera to ask.

"I'm just sitting like you said!"

"No, why do you look at the camera like this?"

Gaby huffs, a bit indignant. "You're looking at me. Why shouldn't I look at you?"

That gives Illya pause. He stares at her, confusion warring with surprise and sparring with incredulity. This is not what models _do_ , Napoleon knows. Certainly not the first time, with a photographer they barely know. The model is supposed to be the observed, not the observer.

Illya makes a small "hm". His eyes narrow at Gaby. Then he lifts the camera back to his face and starts snapping, even as Gaby's gaze shoots straight down the barrel, her expression all fire and spit.

In between shots, she catches Napoleon's gaze. He grins. She smirks, pleased.

Maybe there's some hope left after all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Illya calls him the next day.

"Bring her to the studio around ten," he says gruffly before rattling off an address in Manhattan.

Then he hangs up.

Napoleon sets the phone back in the cradle. Pumps his fist in a brief celebration.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Illya has definitely upgraded his studio since Napoleon last worked with him. The space is the top floor of a commercial building, with high ceilings, a flock of assistants and stylists buzzing around as Napoleon trails Gaby into the space.

"You're finally here," Illya greets them distractedly before swinging around to ask one of the assistants where his light metre is. Then he leads them over to a rack of clothes, what must be the latest couture. "Wear this," he pulls out a violently yellow shift dress, "with these," oversized geometric earrings, "and these," flat white sandals, "and this belt," bright orange, and utterly hideous. "And then go see Kenneth, he will do your hair."

"You can't be serious," Napoleon demands, eyeing the oversaturated ensemble.

Having already begun to turn away, Illya whips around, glaring at him incredulously. "I'm always serious."

"Are you always this wrong?"

"Are you always this opinionated?" Illya shoots back. Despite the argument, Napoleon grins a little. He'd almost forgotten how much fun it is to get a rise out of Illya.

"Me? You are the most stubborn person I've ever met."

Illya scoffs. "I'm passionate. And I'm right."

"Oh really?"

Illya steps closer, about to open his mouth when Gaby cuts in.

"Are you two going to stand around and flirt all day? Or can I go get changed?"

When Napoleon whips around to look at her, she appears caught between boredom and amusement. Since Illya just gapes at her, she snatches the clothes from his hand and disappears to change.

Napoleon glances back at Illya, who jolts, startled, and then scowls. Without another word, he goes to prepare his camera.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The shoot is a success. Even though Illya tries to downplay it, Napoleon can tell he's pleased. And because it's _him_ , he gives Illya shit about it until Illya kicks them out in a huff, but he also mutters that they should come by the next afternoon if they want to see the contact sheets.

"How do you know Illya?" Gaby asks the following morning as she stands at the stove, flamingo-legged, making omelets.

"We've always run in the same circles," Napoleon answers as he slides around her to grab a cup of coffee, not the full truth, but not untrue. "Also, is that my shirt?" he asks, glancing down at her wearing a t-shirt which is decidedly too large for her and which rather resembles one from his closet.

"I need to do laundry," Gaby produces by way of explanation. "And stop evading about Illya. You two seem very close."

Napoleon's heart briefly stammers. "Do we? I called him an insufferable jackass the other day."

"Yes, but you didn't mean it."

Sighing, he meets Gaby's gaze. She's not going to let this one go. "We met when we were both young and foolish. And we..." How does he begin to sum up _that_? Does he even want to? "We became friends."

Gaby's eyes narrow slightly. "Friends?"

"Friends are a thing where people enjoy spending time with another and don't steal the other person's clothes or burn their breakfast. You may have heard of it."

"Oh please, I never burned your _—_ oh Scheiße, fuck."

Laughter overtakes Napoleon as Gaby pulls the faintly smouldering pan off the burner, earning him a vicious elbow in the ribs after she sets everything aside. Then she turns back to the pan, prodding at the browned eggs with a spatula.

"They're not that bad," she declares in what has to be extreme optimism or extreme contrariness.

"They're inedible. C'mon, I'll buy you breakfast on the road."

Gaby appears torn between stubborn insistence that she hasn't screwed up and desire for a good meal. As Napoleon expected from her, she chooses the good meal, abandoning the failed omelets with a shrug and going to fetch her purse.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Illya's darkroom has gotten a big upgrade too. It's spacious, with deep trough sinks for tray processing, capable of black and white and colour processing. Ventillated, too, which is a nice touch. Napoleon wouldn't be surprised if he has brain damage from spending so much time in Illya's old bathroom darkroom, huffing processing chemicals all day.

Shooing out his assistant, Illya begins plucking contact sheets from the drying racks, grabbing a dozen or so before he leads Napoleon and Gaby over to a light table and spreads out the first few.

Napoleon and Gaby both lean down to look. He's seen enough of these things over the years to be unmoved at the parade of tiny prints on the sheet, shots of Gaby from yesterday in that hideous dress. But Gaby makes a small noise next to him, getting closer still as she stares at her own image on the thick paper, still warped from the baths in chemicals.

"I've never..." she begins before seeming to catch the awe in her own voice and tamping it down.

Looking again, trying to see it through her eyes, Napoleon gazes at the sheet. The first row of pictures are just test shots, with imperfect lighting, the earliest ones featuring some assistant rather than Gaby. But then Gaby appears and fixes that stare of hers on the camera, the eye contact humming with electricity even when it's tiny, unenlarged. She looks...elegant. Proud. Sophisticated in a way that jars Napoleon after weeks spent with the girl who sings tunelessly, terribly along to the radio while she burns his breakfast. He'd almost forgotten that he'd brought her here in large part because of her looks.

Gaby's still looking at herself as seen through Illya's lens, her brows crinkling, like she can't quite reconcile the elegant woman on the page with her own image of herself.

"As you can see, turned out pretty well," Illya says, interrupting the moment. He reaches past Gaby, arm brushing hers, and pulls some of the other contact sheets into view. A parade of tiny Gabys fills the table, looking left, looking right, smirking, frowning, turning away. "Will show Diana later. Editor," he clarifies when Gaby gives him a blank look.

She just nods, turns back to the photos of herself. After a moment she huffs, a little incredulous, like she can't quite believe that's _her_.

Later, once they've seen all of the photos and are preparing to leave, Napoleon catches Illya by the arm and holds him back just outside the darkroom.

"Why did you do this, Peril?" Napoleon asks in a low voice. "Show us these photos? You didn't need to."

Illya makes a noise like a shrug, eyeing Gaby as she gazes out the window at the street below. "She should see. She needs to understand what she's getting into. I wish you..."

"Don't," Napoleon cuts in, not wanting to hear it. "Just..." he sighs, "just don't. Okay?"

Giving him a too-knowing look, Illya shakes his head. Somehow it's just like the way Illya used to react five years earlier. Napoleon still hates it. Still hates that Illya is probably right.

"She knows, yes?"

"She knows what she needs to," Napoleon grunts, fiercer than necessary based on the way Illya frowns. He’s not sticking around for any more disapproval, though, so he strides out the door, trusting that Gaby will follow him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"C'mon, we're going out," Napoleon tells Gaby a few evenings later, making her glance at him from where she's sprawled out on the living room sofa. "Celebrate how well things are going. Illya is thrilled."

"He’s thrilled? Most of the time he still seems annoyed at me."

Napoleon shakes his head. "No, trust me, he likes you. If he didn't he'd be lording it over me. Him being quiet means I was right."

"You two have a very strange relationship," Gaby comments drily, yet with an ember of curiosity burning beneath it.

"So I've been told," Napoleon deflects. "How much modern dance have you seen?"

Gaby squints at him. "None? I did ballet."

With a grin, Napoleon begins moving for the front door. "Oh man, you're in for a treat. C'mon, there's a new performance on at Judson. It's wild stuff; improvised. I don't really get it, to be honest, but all the dancers I know are either in love with it or outraged."

Turns out Gaby is a bit of both. Intrigued, more than anything, by this strange form of dance. Napoleon still doesn't quite understand it, but he learns a lot as Gaby whispers in his ear, telling him about things he only half understands, but doing it with such enthusiasm that he can't bring himself to stop her.

After the performance, Napoleon loses Gaby in the crowd while she disappears to talk to the dancers. He gazes around the old church, converted into a performance space for the night, with its Italiante arches and columns. For a moment he considers joining Gaby, but he's not certain whether his presence would be an asset or not. So he sits back and amuses himself people watching until Gaby is suddenly in front of him again.

"Meet some people?" he asks her.

"Yeah, I was talking to, uh, I think her name was Simone? She invited me to a party they're having after. Do you want to come?" She's bright-eyed with excitement, still buzzing from the high of the performance, already looking like his agreement is a sure thing. She's almost blinding.

Napoleon's eyes slide away from Gaby's, eyeing the crowd again. This set is different enough from the fashion scene he used to occupy that there probably isn't anyone who would know his past, but still.

"Nah, think I'm going to pack it in," he says, jerking his head towards the back of the church. "Head home." At the way Gaby's expression falls, Napoleon gives her a reassuring smile. "You go, though. Have fun."

"Oh. Okay, if you're sure." She turns away then pauses, looking back at him and biting her lip like she wants to say something else. But she just shakes her head and slips off into the crowd.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's the first evening he's been alone in the apartment since they returned.

As he gets ready for bed, Napoleon reminds himself of how much he always valued living alone. The peace, the ability to come and go as he pleased, the lack of scrutiny. For once there's no one banging on the bathroom door telling him to hurry up because she needs to take a bath, no one singing along _terribly_ to Beatles songs on the radio, no one chatting with him about what they're doing for lunch the next day.

It's quiet.

Napoleon tells himself he doesn't hate it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to Saathi1013, firstly I cannot thank you enough for the delightful prompts. Choosing one was tough! Secondly, I must apologize for posting a WIP. I fully intended to finish this before Christmas, but 2018 decided to give me one last kick while I was down and I wasn't able to get it all out the door. However, the second chapter is done pending polishing and minor revisions and will be posted before the New Year, the third is about half finished and should be out in January, so you won't be waiting indefinitely!
> 
> Historical accuracy-wise, I know that marriage was probably not an option to get out of East Germany in 1963. My google-fu failed me on the topic completely, the closest I got was Russia a decade or two later which I know was a completely different political climate. But I'm a sucker for all variations of the "fake married" trope and it's Christmas. So this is my present to myself.
> 
> (Also historical accuracy-wise I am fully aware that JDT was postmodern dance, not modern, so I had better not get any chiding comments from dancers. Napoleon gets that wrong because I don't think he was caught up on the particularities of dance movements.)
> 
> Full acknowledgements will come when the final chapter is published.


	2. Chapter 2

As summer simmers away into fall, life settles into something of a routine. They do shoots with Illya three or four times a week, each taking on one of two distinct moods. In the studio, surrounded by assistants, he's gruff and boring and it's obviously driving Gaby nuts. But sometimes he brings them over to his flat, or goes over to theirs instead. Says he likes the light in both places. He's different during those sessions. More like the man Napoleon remembers, not the overstressed person he is in the studio now, juggling too much for the sake of work he seems to disdain

"Why don't you play music?" Gaby asks Illya one day while they're in studio, boredly eyeing the flamingos she's supposed to be posing next to, which are currently shitting all over the white backdrop. It's mid-afternoon of one of those days when nothing is going right. Illya is fraying, turning more curt and tetchy with everyone, pausing occasionally to eye the circus of exotic birds and assistants and stylists and hangers-on as if he just wants the entire ensemble to just go away.

"Need quiet," Illya grunts, not looking at her while he fusses with his camera. "Focus."

"It's boring."

"It's productive."

Gaby's mouth thins into a frustrated line. "Allegra said Bert plays music in his studio. She said everyone does."

"Yes, well," Illya says scornfully, "Bert is a–" He cuts himself off, going still, eyes flicking to Napoleon. "It doesn't matter what Bert does."

Letting out a hissing breath, Napoleon tries to decide whether it's worth the bother to get into what Bert _is_ and Napoleon _was_ with Peril right now. Whether it's worth calling Illya out on that acidic scorn or whether it's less hassle to just drop the subject. But Illya has moved on already, pausing in his preparations to upbraid the flamingo handler (where does Illya even find these people?), who insists that the uncooperative birds need a break, even though the shoot has barely begun.

And Gaby is staring at Illya like he's a car she'd like to rip apart; something that is undeniably work, a project, but an interesting one. It's not a rosy, blossoming friendship between them. Nothing so warm.

It's _something_ , though.

 

* * *

 

The days become familiar, too, at home. Gaby keeps making breakfast in the mornings. She's terrible at it, but she's equally determined, so Napoleon gamely makes his way through burnt toast and runny eggs and whatever else she whips up.

The evenings vary. Some nights Gaby stays home and dries the dishes while he washes them, then puts her feet in his lap while they watch TV. It's comfortable. Domestic, even. Maybe he should hate it, but he doesn't.

Gaby's social circle grows with every week she lives in New York. She doesn't go out every night, but she's venturing forth with growing boldness, invited to clubs and house parties and openings and just about every event around. Every time she invites him along. He'll go to the openings with her, those are pretty safe. But no parties, no clubs. He's stayed clean this long, but he has no interest in testing his limits.

Illya comes over to their place regularly, too. But more and more often lately, he only takes pictures for a few minutes before declaring the session finished and accepting Napoleon's offer of a beer. So it's not unusual when Illya comes by one night. Though normally he phones ahead.

"Gaby isn't here," Napoleon explains. "I thought you heard her talking earlier about going to that party she's at now."

Instead of responding to the implied question of why he's here without the pretense of photographing Gaby, Illya begins toeing his shoes off. It seems that he's staying.

"I don't have anything to drink." Alcohol was never Napoleon's primary vice, but he still doesn't like to keep it in the house. Normally he runs out to grab a six-pack before Illya's visits, just to have something to offer. "Just Perrier."

Illya's eyebrows bob up. He gives Napoleon a look, pleased, which vanishes when Napoleon frowns at him. "That's fine," Illya says. "I don't drink much these days anyways."

After they've settled on the couch, the conversation flounders.

"So..." Napoleon leads, hoping Illya will take the opening.

"How are you doing, Cowboy?"

"Same as when I saw you this morning."

Illya shakes his head. "No, I mean, are you...?"

Ah, yes. That. "I'm fine, Peril." Heading off Illya's skeptical look, Napoleon raises his hands. "So don't worry. I won't screw up your work with Gaby."

"That's not..." Illya pauses, measuring his words. "I just wanted to know if _you_ are okay. She talks about going to a lot of parties. And the people she's spending time with...I wasn't sure if you were involved. I'm worried for you."

Napoleon sighs. Part of him wants to yell and scream and push Illya away (again) and bury his past. Part of him wants to tell Illya everything, all the stuff he should've said five years ago but didn't. "You don't have to worry about me. I can handle this. I'm being careful."

"Even if I don't have to worry, I will anyways," Illya says with a faint snort. "That was always our way. You do crazy things, I worry. Do you remember that time at Dick's party? When you started dancing on the table? Pestered me until I joined you even though I say you will get hurt? And then you fell and broke your hand?"

Despite himself, Napoleon chuckles. "Yeah, I remember." He remembers the pain, of course. But more than that, he remembers the way Illya had stared up at him with those huge, beautiful blue eyes of his, trying so hard to look disapproving even as he was grinning. Remembers the warm slide of Illya's palms against his shoulders when he'd finally dragged him into dancing. Remembers planning to grab Illya and pin him against the nearest wall before he'd fallen and broken his damned hand and that plan got derailed.

"That was fun night," Illya comments, cutting through Napoleon's recollections. "Apart from having to spend four hours waiting for you at the hospital."

"You took me for breakfast after. Waffles, wasn't it?"

"Da." Illya doesn't pick up the story from there. Going home together, getting help wrapping up his stupid cast so it wouldn't get wet in the shower, making out in the kitchen until Napoleon forgot himself and tried to grab for Illya with his broken hand and then broke away to swear in pain. Apparently they're not discussing _that_.

"Anyways," Illya says, rising, "I should go. Just wanted to make sure you are okay."

"Peril—"

Illya turns to look at him, melancholic, with those same huge, beautiful blue eyes. Napoleon's words stumble.

"I..."

(Miss you?)

"I'm glad you came. Thanks for checking up on me. I know I was shitty whenever you used to do that. Back then."

With a soft tsk, Illya shakes his head. "You were struggling. It's not...I always understood why you acted how you did. I just wished I could find a way to help you."

"No, I never should h—"

"I should go," Illya repeats, jittery, like he can't quite stand to talk about this again. "See you on Friday."

Once he's gone, Napoleon slumps on the couch, massaging his forehead. It shouldn't be this painful, every time Illya walks away from him. After all of these years it shouldn't hurt.

Maybe someday he'll get the hang of life's 'shoulds.'

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later they're at Illya's flat again, and he's is in another one of his moods, manic, restless things that drive him to work all day and, as a result, make Gaby and Napoleon work all day too. Sunset has come and gone, and Illya is still behind the camera, directing Gaby with comments that grow more clipped with each minute.

"Stand straight," Illya says, gruff.

"You're too tall," Gaby shoots back, though she does correct her posture.

"You're too short," comes the reply from the back of the camera.

Gaby snorts. Rolls her eyes. Illya takes another two shots. The look on Gaby's face is growing more bored by the second. Napoleon has spent enough time with her by now to know that a bored Gaby is pure, untempered trouble. Watching from the sidelines, he shoots her a chiding frown. She rolls her eyes at him, too.

"I need to get something," she suddenly declares, wandering off in complete disregard of Illya's confused protests. A minute later she's back with something tucked under her arm, which Napoleon recognizes, after a moment, as the portable plastic radio she'd bought a few weeks ago.

She wanders back to where Illya had her posed, but she also pulls out the radio, setting it on the floor and flicking through frequencies.

"What is _that_?" Illya asks, frowning in alarm.

"A radio." The chosen station is something jazzy, not pop, not what Napoleon would've expected from her, but it must please her because she stands, swaying along to the beat as she walks back into place.

Illya sputters. "I know that. I mean, why do you have it?"

"I'm bored," Gaby repeats, turning her back and doing a strange shimmy. Napoleon snorts and she catches his eye again, grinning. "And I like music."

"Turn it off," Illya says, camera forgotten in his hand as he approaches her.

"No." She doesn't grace him with a look, just continues her endearingly uncoordinated shuffle. "You're supposed to be taking my picture," she reminds him.

Blinking, Illya shakes himself, then pulls the camera back up to his face, backing up to frame the shot. A few clicks. Gaby twirls aimlessly, provoking another burst of clicks. She begins looking around with an expression that Napoleon is starting to learn means she's looking for trouble. Illya's nose is pressed to the camera.

"Dance with me, Illya," she tells him with a tempting flutter of her outstretched hand.

"I'm taking pictures now."

"You can do both." She darts forward into his space, too close for him to focus, based on the way his head rears back and his hand twists round the lens. She snags his left arm, tugging at it, and the camera drops from Illya's face as he stares down at her in puzzlement.

"Gaby, I am trying to—"

She shushes him, grinning, extracting the camera from his surprise-loosened grip and looking for somewhere to put it. Napoleon reaches out, takes it, their fingers brushing as she smiles at him for a second before turning her focus back to Illya.

"What—?" Illya demands, gazing now at Napoleon as if asking him to _fix her_ , glaring murderously when Napoleon just chuckles.

"Don't leave her hanging there, Peril," Napoleon drawls, amused beyond all measure at this turn. And this is exactly why he knew Gaby would be the right fit for Illya. Because Illya needs someone to challenge him. Gaby takes him by the wrists, pulling him along as she sways and shimmies, while Napoleon watches from the sidelines. Gaby murmurs something to Illya, too softly for Napoleon to hear, and Illya makes a grumbly, reluctant 'no', even as Gaby is tugging him closer.

Nostalgia filters through Napoleon's chest as he watches them. He remembers a time when it was _him_ who was dragging Illya into dancing, grinning as Illya would inevitably put on a grumpy act but end up smiling, gruff but fond, whenever he thought Napoleon wasn't looking. He's doing the same thing now with Gaby, scowling when she tips her head up to look at him, but expression softening to a loopy little grin when she glances away.

Napoleon puts Illya's camera to his face, sensing that the other two are entranced by each other enough that they won't notice a few shutter snaps. He's no photographer, not like Illya, but he just wants to preserve this moment.

The song begins to fade. Illya goes still from his awkward shuffle, gazing down a Gaby. She's still caught up in the music, off dancing to some tune only she can hear, Illya's wrists captive in her grasp. Then Gaby finally seems to realize the moment has passed, turning to look up at Illya.

They lock stares. Napoleon sees Illya swallow.

Then, stupidly, Napoleon shifts on his feet, the tension of the moment too much to bear. The floor creaks. Gaby jolts away from Illya, unsettled, electric. She finds Napoleon's gaze, her expression doing something odd, confused, and both of them look away, but she and Illya sway closer again for a moment before he stalks over to Napoleon and grabs his camera. Gaby watches him go.

 _So_ , Napoleon thinks, _those two._

Then he sighs. This will be fine. He'll make it fine.

 

* * *

 

Back in East Berlin, what is now months ago, Gaby had made Napoleon promise something; she'd made him swear that their 'marriage' would be in title only. That she'd still be free to do whatever she wanted and see whoever she wanted. Which, at the time, had suited Napoleon just fine too. He hadn't had any interest being tied down either, thank you very much. So he says nothing as Gaby continues to go out a few nights a week. Not his place.

And besides, he knows what goes on at the sort of parties she's attending. Too much booze, too many drugs, too many rich posers playing at having taste who bought a Picasso and then stuck it in the bathroom, and would barely miss the masterpieces if they were taken.

Temptation.

He expects Gaby to stay out all night, but she never does. Instead he'll be woken at two, three, occasionally five in the morning by the front door banging open. He's not sure if she's not bothering to be quiet or if she just can't manage it while she's tipsy. Either way, he always hears her come in, and then listens to her footsteps clomp into the apartment, the water running as she brushes her teeth, doors closing and light switches flicking off. It's oddly soothing; it always reassures him that she's okay, home in one piece and not too fucked up to brush her teeth. He's not quite part of her routine, but it still feels intimate, in a strange way.

It becomes differently intimate in a much more strange way when one night, a few months in, her clomping footsteps pause outside his bedroom door. But by that point he's already half asleep again and doesn't realize what's happening until the blankets shift and suddenly Gaby is curling into his side.

"Wh—Gaby?" he rasps, blinking to unglue his sleep-crusted eyelids as she sets her hands on his chest and her chin on her hands.

"Hi," she retorts, snarky, like her crawling into bed with him is just something they do and he's being exceptionally stupid about it.

"Can I help you with something?"

"I hate sleeping on that couch."

"Technically it's a sofa bed."

Gaby's face wrinkles up. "Fine, I hate sleeping on that sofa bed."

"O...kay."

She blinks slowly, her eyelashes alighting, raven-like, on her cheeks before lifting off again. She's still staring at him with huge eyes. Her breath is warm on his face, sharp with liquor, not pleasant.

"How drunk are you?" he questions.

Finally breaking her unnerving stare, Gaby groans, pressing her cheek to her knuckles where they sit on his chest. "Not enough. That party was so boring. You should come to the next one. At least you're fun."

"Nah, you don't want boring old me there," he teases gently.

"Yes I do." Her reply is slurred, half with drink and half with sleep, her eyelashes landing again on her cheek as she squirms around a bit, seemingly settling in for a good sleep. But the words are instantaneous and certain. Napoleon tells himself they don't matter.

"Gaby?"

"Mmf?"

"Go brush your teeth."

With a snort, she whacks him with the back of her hand. Still, she hauls herself off him reluctantly and wanders out of the room. As he listens to the water run in the bathroom, then, a minute later, the door to her room opening and closing, Napoleon definitely isn't the slightest bit disappointed. Not at all.

 

* * *

 

It's almost ridiculous, how quickly Illya becomes completely smitten with Gaby. Especially considering how long it took him to even notice her that way. But it's like a switch has been flipped.

Neither of them seem to know quite how to approach the other. Some days, when they're in sync, Illya will give Gaby little saucy smiles and she'll shoot back retorts that don't do much to conceal how much she enjoys this game between them. Illya even flirts with her a bit, something Napoleon never thought he'd see from Peril until he witnesses it.

Gaby is more difficult to read. She obviously enjoys the attention. Napoleon catches her grinning to herself, cat with a plump canary in its teeth, whenever Illya glances away. But then she'll suddenly turn flighty, unnerved, and push him away with retorts that are far more acerbic than pleased.

Which would be fine. Napoleon is fine with his...whatever Illya was, is, to him, and his...

(Jesus Christ, she's his _wife_.)

...and his...whatever _Gaby_ is to him. He's fine with them being a thing. Honestly, he is. It's just that this back-and-forth is maddening. He's never sure what mood the two of them will be in, and the uncertainty means he constantly has to adjust his approach to them.

He doesn't plan to give them a nudge. But when the opportunity offers itself up, he doesn't turn it down.

Another day of work. This time at Illya's flat. Just the three of them. Illya has on this black sweater that clings to his chest just right and his hair is a bit rumpled, and these dresses that Gaby is in, good God, they're doing wonders for her and she's back to that cat-sharp smile which brightens her entire face. They're both in a good mood, flirty, playful.

In short, they're being insufferable.

Napoleon almost thinks they've forgotten him when Gaby emerges in the latest dress, some space-age thing in metallic silver that is rather hideous but somehow she still makes it look good, and, to his surprise, she gives him a look.

"Zip me up?" she asks in a voice far too neutral to be believed, the back of her dress peeled open to reveal the long column of her spine, an endless expanse of skin.

Napoleon's eyes dart to Illya. Illya is looking at Gaby. In the second that Napoleon is staring at him, Illya's gaze flicks his way. They lock eyes for a moment. Illya looks away.

"Peril's closer," Napoleon drawls in what he considers very passable indifference.

Illya swallows like someone has shoved a fistful of bees down his throat. "I, ah, I load my camera," he gets out, giving Napoleon a better tell than any body language. Illya's command of English tenses always vanishes when he's nervous.

"You already did that," Napoleon points out, nodding towards the camera which Illya can by now load so quickly that he appears to have not even been aware of doing so. "Anyways, I need some fresh air. I'll be out on the fire escape."

As he rises, Gaby and Illya both give him looks. Illya's somewhere between panic and betrayal. Gaby's once again more difficult to read. Amused, perhaps? But there's something else in there too, resigned, maybe, or disappointed? Napoleon can't figure out that part of it, though, so he just gives her a little smirk when he strolls past her.

Standing out on that balcony is torture. He can hear their voices, the low rumble of Peril's, the throaty murmur of Gaby's. It's an odd thing to send him itching for a drink, a cigarette, a hit of something, but by this point he's resigned himself to unexpected urges. For distraction he forces himself to spy through the windows of the building across the way. Someone is watching TV. Someone else is making dinner. Just one...No. He makes himself stare at the dog looking out someone's window.

After he finds his own leg jittering and his fingers clenching, he ducks back through the window.

"All zipped up?" he asks as he stands, now inside, glancing up at them.

Only after he says it does he see how they are standing. Face-to-face, swaying close, Illya's hand trailing along Gaby's shoulder, as if displaced from doing up her zipper. At his words they leap apart, stung. Gaby bites her lip. Illya's ear tips flush pink.

Despite himself, Napoleon grins a little. They really are sweet.

 

* * *

 

It's a month later that Illya drops by their apartment with a manila envelope tucked under his arm.

"Thought we didn't have a shoot until Thursday," Gaby says as Napoleon leads him into the living room.

"No, no, we don't. I thought you might want to see this. Just arrived today," Illya tells her, flicking open the folder and pulling out a thick, glossy magazine. Gaby takes it from him and holds it up, meeting her own gaze as she stares back from the cover of Vogue.

"Jeez, Peril, I didn't realize you were aiming for a cover," Napoleon breathes.

"I wasn't. Liberman liked the photos, and Diana agreed."

"Not bad for your first year doing this, kiddo," Napoleon chuckles, giving Gaby a little nudge with his shoulder.

Gaby shakes her head, stunned, but a cautious smile is starting to work its way onto her face and she's starting to look rather giddy.

Expecting one of Illya's reluctant but pleased grins, Napoleon glances at him, but instead finds him staring at Gaby, his eyes sweeping down her body quickly. Only then does Napoleon remember that she's now made a habit of stealing his shirts to wear around the house. She's in one of his t-shirts now, a soft grey one that he was looking for the other day, actually, and it's slipped off her shoulder to show her bra strap. Napoleon knows she's wearing shorts under it, but from Illya's height, and how close he's standing, it probably looks like she isn't.

Based on the way Illya freezes, swallows thickly, then yanks his gaze away, Napoleon can guess how this looks to him.

But instead of teasing, or embarrassed, Illya just looks...well, Napoleon is struggling not to call that 'hurt'. His mouth has thinned into a line. His eyes are tight around the corners.

"I should—I need to go," Illya gets out, gruff, snatching the magazine from Gaby's hand.

Gaby frowns up at him. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I just need to go." Bustling to the door, Illya pauses only long enough to toss back a "See you on Thursday" before he's gone.

"That was weird," Gaby comments, still frowning at the door. "Even for him."

Napoleon sighs. Contemplates attempting to explain to her the ten years and ten different levels of history that hover between him and Illya before he gives up. Somehow he's jealous of Gaby because now she's the one Illya gets jealous over instead of him. God, Napoleon doesn't even know how to process that level of 'fucked up'.

"Yeah, I guess so," he just says because he can't bring himself to tell her how much he wishes Illya still looked at him the way he looks at her.

 

* * *

 

Once Gaby makes her first late night detour into his room, it keeps happening. Two weeks later she wanders in, claiming that her mattress is lumpy. A week after that the window in her room is drafty. A few days after that she just shows up without an excuse at all.

“Hey,” she greets him lazily. Napoleon glances at the clock. It’s 4 a.m. and she's just home now. Based on the way she stumbles a little when crawling into bed, she has to be drunk.

“Your toes are cold,” he points out, shoving her feet where they’re pressed icily against his calf. She gives him a light elbow in the ribs. Her pupils seem huge. Is it just the darkness? He can’t quite tell. “Gabs?”

“Yeah?” she mumbles as she begins to burrow into his chest.

"Are you doing drugs?"

"What?"

"At these parties. Pills and stuff, shooting up, whatever."

"No." It's so vehement that he believes her. "I'm not stupid."

He knows he should just be relieved, but somehow the disdain in her tone still gets his hackles up. Forcing himself past that, he starts to speak but falls silent when she reaches for his arm and pulls it around herself.

"Why don't you ever come with me?" her voice is starting to trail off with fatigue. "Just once."

"I figured having your 'husband' there might put a damper on things for you," he says, lightly, but meaning it.

Her face twists up strangely, nose wrinkling. "I'm not hooking up with people. Well, not much. All the guys at these fashion parties are gay, and the ones who aren't are pretentious arseholes. At least if you were there I'd have someone else to make fun of people's silly couture with." She yawns, nuzzling against his shoulder, and she's dropped off to sleep before he can reply. Using the arm still snugged around her waist, Napoleon shifts her a bit, so her absurdly pointy elbows aren't digging into his side. The jostling stirs up a disgruntled grumble from her, but she doesn't wake.

For a moment he considers picking her up, putting her back in her own bed. Sofa bed. She seems so comfortable, though, and she looks peaceful and sweet tucked into his side, and he can't quite find the willpower to disturb her.

And in that moment, he realizes that this needs to end.

 

* * *

 

"Why are we here, again?" Gaby asks as she glances around the furniture store that Napoleon has dragged her to on a day off from shooting.

"You need a bed. A real bed."

"What's wrong with the one we already have?"

Napoleon turns to look at her incredulously. "That crappy old sofa bed? The one you constantly complain about? Last week you said the mattress is lumpy. Week before the frame kept creaking weirdly and it was waking you up. And I'm going to fix the draft from the window, too. So you don't have to keep crawling in with me just to get a good night's sleep."

Gaby gives him a strange look, biting her lip. She stares at her feet. "Oh. Yeah. Of course."

"So, it's settled. C'mon, let's see what we can find." He begins walking further into the store, past some sofas, to the section with the bed frames.

"That room won't fit a big bed," Gaby points out. "It barely fits the sofa bed now."

"I measured. Should be able to just fit a double if we shove it up against the wall."

There's a pause. Gaby eyes the beds with indifference. "You've thought of everything.” She doesn't sound nearly as pleased as he was expecting.

Napoleon takes a moment to try to think of this from her perspective. Maybe buying a bed for her, a real bed, is just another reminder of how long she's stuck living with him. That must be it. He leans a bit closer, speaking softly.

"Look, I know these living arrangements have lasted longer than we were hoping. But there's no reason for you to be uncomfortable for as long as you have to stay. Besides, you can take it with you when you move out, if you want."

Gaby shakes her head with a huff, not looking at him again. Frowning at her reaction, Napoleon tries to formulate a question, but then she speaks. "That makes sense. Very practical."

"Gabs, are you—?"

"Come on, let's have a look," she proclaims, all business, heading for the nearest bed and sitting on it. It's got a thick box-spring, and the frame itself is high off the ground, so she has to hop up a little and her legs are dangling off the side.

Napoleon snorts. "Illya's right, you are too short."

"Shut up," Gaby retorts with an eyeroll and a suppressed grin. "Now I can't get this one. You'll laugh every time I sit on it." Clambering down, she moves onto the next bed, Napoleon following her.

They spend half the afternoon trying out beds, sitting on what feels like every single one in the store at least twice, periodically interrupted by overeager shop employees. Napoleon teases her about being picky, for which he earns a whack in the face with a pillow. She's laughing and smiling and keeps up the assault until he apologizes and surrenders. Discarding the pillow, Gaby flops back down next to him, staring across the mattress. A half-smile is still tugging at her mouth. She's somehow gotten far closer than he'd realized.

"So," she begins, low, still smirking a little, "what's a guy like you doing in a bed like this?"

Napoleon snorts. She's begun to use a lot more American expressions since arriving here. He doesn't think she quite has a handle on this one yet. "Getting beaten at pillow fights, mostly."

Grin broadening, Gaby scoots closer. "I'm beating men? Whatever would my husband say?"

It's the first time she's _ever_ referred to him as her husband. Napoleon's heart does a strange jump in his chest, even as he tries to tell himself that she's just joking, that she doesn't mean it. He's struggling, though, with that grin of hers which he can't allow himself to call 'flirty.' In his moment of panic Gaby is waiting for his response, and her face falls. And he starts to panic a little and maybe he should–

"How are you folks doing? Any questions about this model?" interrupts the saccharine voice of another shop attendant, making Napoleon jolt and twitch away from Gaby.

"Uh, we're fine," Napoleon says. He clears his throat. "What do you think, Gabs?"

When he glances over, she has rolled away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at her knees. "It's—it's good. I like this one."

"Excellent choice!" The shop attendant is still beaming at them, unnaturally blonde and unnaturally cheerful. "It's very popular." Not getting anything from Gaby, not even a look, the attendant turns back to Napoleon. "If your wife is—"

"Yeah, yeah, it's great, we'll take it," he grunts as he climbs off the bed. He numbly follows the attendant to pay and sign up for delivery, Gaby following along behind him without saying a word.

The silence continues on the cab ride home.

 

* * *

 

As the months progress, Napoleon stops attending every single photoshoot. Gaby can look after herself for a day, and he is actually working on getting a few more clients, models to manage. Besides, there's only so many hours Napoleon can spend watching Illya gaze at Gaby with such awed devotion before he starts to feel sick with regret and envy.

It's one of these times, he joins them after running some errands, that he finds Illya has dug out old negatives.

Of _him_.

"You never told me you used to..." Gaby begins, staring at him in the photograph, twenty-two, boyish, pretty in a way he doesn't feel anymore. Then she glances at him, a frown settling on her face as she obviously compares him to his past self. He desperately wishes she wouldn't do that.

"That's because it was a long time ago," he says as he gives Illya a glare. "And it's not important."

Illya, who's been silent, watching them, murmurs then, so softly that Napoleon almost misses it.

"You were good at it."

There's too much in his gaze, when Napoleon finds it. Too much wanting, the sort of wanting that Illya fought against back then until it tore apart what they had.

"Well, doesn't matter." Snatching the prints from Gaby's hand, which provokes a protest from her and Illya, Napoleon shoves everything back in Illya's box and shoves the box into Illya's arms.

 

* * *

 

Gaby spends the rest of the day giving him looks that alternate between hurt and irate. Like he owes her his damned life story. And in the evening she goes out, not bothering to invite him, slamming the door as she leaves.

Fine. Napoleon can take a hint.

Except she's not back in the morning.

She's an adult, he reminds himself as he makes toast for one and stares at the Times without reading it. She's fine. She can do whatever she likes. It's not like they're...all they do is live together. Neither of them owes the other anything.

He makes it to about one in the afternoon before he can't keep that line of thinking up.

"What?" Illya asks when he phones.

"Have you, uh, is Gaby there?"

"No. Why would she be here?" But before he has a chance to answer Illya continues. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! Jesus, how is this my fault?"

"I asked if you told her. You said you did," Illya points out brusquely.

"Technically I said I'd told her what she needs to know. But I don't owe her every single sordid detail about how I fucked my life up."

Illya sighs, rattling with a hint of a exasperation. "Cowboy, you know that if you talked to me the first time, when you _were_ fucking your life up, maybe I could help you?"

"What's that got to do with anything? And besides, you weren't...You were pushing me away. My life was falling apart and you were my...and you were too spineless to even tell me to leave. You just kept freezing me out until I left on my own."

"Because you didn't want help," Illya snaps. "I tried. But I can't help you if you don't let me. Do you have any idea what it is like? To watch someone you–your friend, to watch him destroy himself? And try to help him, but he just gets angry? Do you have _any idea_ how much that hurts? No, be quiet, I'm not done," he growls when Napoleon tries to cut in. "I'm happy that you're trying again. I am happy that you're okay now. But you _need_ to tell her. She said to me other day, she doesn't understand why you never go out with her. Parties and things. She thinks you just don't like her. She's hurt. She doesn't understand what's happening with you. Because you still won't tell _anyone_ that you have weaknesses. That you need help. And I won't let you do that to someone else."

Illya falls silent. Napoleon can hear every one of his harsh breaths across the phone.

"Peril..."

"I'll call you if she comes over," Illya says coldly before there's a clack and the line goes dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! Life has a way of refusing to just stay quiet, for some reason. Should be one more chapter, and I should probably stop making promises about when I'm going to publish things because I never live up to what I say. So it'll be done when it's done.


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon is just about climbing the walls, talking himself out of phoning the police every other minute, when the front door bangs open.

"What?" Gaby demands as he leaps to his feet and stares at her. She's still in her clothes from yesterday, but her hair is a mess, eyelids shadowed with rogue eyeliner.

"I just...where the hell were you, Gabs?"

"Why do you care?" She pushes past him towards the kitchen, going to root through the fridge.

"I was worried," he tries carefully, uncertain if this will spook her. Her shoulders go stiff and she gives him a guarded glare, still hunched halfway down, pulling out the milk and giving it a sniff, then making a face. Completely ignoring him, she sets the milk next to the sink and then dives back in for the orange juice. So Napoleon tries again. "Can we talk?"

"I don't think I can stop you," she points out, frosty, before turning away and taking a swig of juice straight from the carton, which, _really?_ But chiding her for that is pretty near the bottom of his list of priorities right now.

"Yesterday I..."

Narrowing her eyes, Gaby makes it clear that _yesterday_ is not the sole source of their problems. Fair point.

"You probably have questions," he redirects. "About me. My past. We both know I have–"

"–Been lying?" she cuts in, arch, before wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

"No, no, I swear to God I never lied to you. But I haven't told you the whole truth." She's still facing half away, glaring at him out of the corner of her eye, and Napoleon can't stand it all of a sudden. Slow, giving her time to move, he steps in front of her. Her chin juts out as she looks up at him, but she holds her ground. "So, you know now that I modeled. For Illya, mostly. And at first it was fine, I enjoyed it. And his career sort of skyrocketed and mine with his and things got...intense. Fast. I didn't really know how to handle it. So I..." He bites his lip, everything screaming in his brain to keep hiding things, to keep his ugliness and shame tucked deep down where they can't be judged.

"You what?" Gaby prompts, less harsh than before.

"I partied a lot." That wasn't the hard part. He has to take a steadying breath before he can keep going. "Which turned into drinking a lot. But I never really liked being drunk so I started looking for something..." One more breath. Then he has to swallow past the nervous, nauseous lump crawling up his throat. "Guy who sold them to me, he was a real doctor. Had his license and everything. He said they were vitamins. And I didn't...I just needed something to give me a boost. Help me keep my shit together. They worked for a while. Until they didn't and I needed more. But..."

Napoleon can't do this. Can't expose his life for people to pick apart. But when he opens his eyes again he finds her looking up at him, frowning a bit, her previous hostility tempered into a sort of wary curiosity.

"But turns out that stuff's expensive. And it's not like you can ask the bank for a loan for drug money." He forces himself to laugh, though it crumples a bit on the way up his throat. "Anyways, have you _seen_ the fancy shit all of these fashion people have? It was...I started with small stuff. Jewelry, mostly. Dumped it at pawn shops. It was so damn easy. Too easy. I moved up to paintings and...I was stupid. Got busted for this _amazing_ Picasso."

"Busted?" Gaby's brows crinkle. "Like, arrested?"

He nods, barely able to breathe past the shame that's coursing through him. "Yeah." He coughs. "I was lucky. Only did a year. After I got out everyone knew what I'd done and I just...So I got the hell away from New York. Took some time, got sober." Which barely sums up the years he's spent struggling to get clean and stay clean, a struggle which never fully leaves, but that feels like too large of a tangent for the present. "Came back last year and reconnected with Illya. He said he'd pay me to go find someone fresh for him." With a shrug, Napoleon pastes on a self-effacing grin. "Pretty sure he just couldn't stand the sight of me, but a job's a job, so I took the money and went to Europe for six months. Met you, and here we are now."

Shaking her head slowly, Gaby takes a shaky breath. Holds it for a second. Sets it free in a rush. "I...wow."

"Yeah," he replies dully, already bracing for her to storm away and start packing.

"That's it?"

Napoleon frowns. "What do you mean, 'that's it?' Isn't that enough?"

With a huff that's almost amusement, Gaby shrugs. "With how secretive you were being I thought you murdered someone." For a quivering, uncertain moment, she eyes him. Then she shakes her head again, pushing off from the counter with a bounce of her hip. "I'm going to take a nap."

As she slips past him, Napoleon's mouth works as he reels, stunned at her non-reaction to his deepest shame. "You...what?"

"Taking a nap." Wandering down the hall, she tugs her hair free from its customary ponytail, making a groan of relief.

As soon as she's gone, Napoleon slumps against the fridge. His legs are trembling. How did he not notice that before now? He doubles over, hands on his knees, pulling in long, full breaths of air until the shaking lessens and his brain isn't clawing and screaming for him to find a fix. Well, until it's clawing and screaming less.

 

 

* * *

 

 

At some point after Gaby goes to bed, Napoleon realizes he should probably call Illya.

"What?"

"Is that how you answer the phone to everyone?" Napoleon asks.

"No, just you. I can tell when you call. The ringer is extra annoying," Illya retorts.

Another day Napoleon would thrive on this bit of humour, but now he's too rattled to even register it. "Sure. I, uh, I just wanted to let you know that Gaby's back now. In case you were wondering."

Illya makes a soft hum. "Good. Is she okay? Did you talk to her?"

Napoleon sighs. "She's fine. And I did. It was..." He still feels shaky from the emotion of revealing himself, tremulous and fragile, and suddenly the words are a struggle. "It was..."

"Cowboy?"

"Can you come over?" he blurts out, hitting his fist against his thigh, hard, as soon as it escapes his lips. "Sorry, never mind." What if Illya says no? What if it's too needy or coming on too strong or–?

"Yes." A rustle trickles across the phone, presumably Illya shifting to check his watch. "I'll be there in… half hour, if traffic is good."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Napoleon has managed to pull himself together a bit more by the time Illya arrives. Still, the moment he opens the door and Illya is standing there, suddenly he has to wrestle with the desire to wrap around him in a desperate bear hug.

Illya always gave the best hugs. Napoleon can't even remember the last time he had one.

"Hey Cowboy," Illya says with a faint, crooked grin. "You okay?"

A rush of pure relief blows through Napoleon. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay now," he gets out, stepping aside to let Illya in.

They settle on the couch, not close enough to touch, but if Napoleon concentrates he can almost feel the warmth of Illya's thigh next to his own.

"I told her. Everything. The modeling, the drugs, the theft, prison, all of it. First time I've ever told anyone the whole story."

Illya nods, lips gathering. "Good." He doesn't say anything more, just lets silence hang between them until Napoleon can't stand it anymore.

"Thanks for coming over. I don't–I wasn't doing great. When I called you."

"I could tell."

Napoleon frowns. "How? I thought I was hiding it pretty well."

"Your voice." Pausing, Illya holds up a hand, making it waver like a leaf in the wind. "When you're upset it always...shakes. And I can tell when you try to hide this. Never works on me." Napoleon makes a half-hearted noise of protest, but Illya just snorts, before going serious again. "You want to talk about it?"

"God no. I've had enough talking today to last a lifetime. I'm exhausted."

"Never thought I would hear you say this, that you are done talking.”

"Shut up." With an elbow, Napoleon nudges Illya in the side, provoking another snort and a retaliatory shove.

They settle, then, into one of those well-worn silences that need no filling. They've moved closer in the jostling, legs brushing now. Neither moves away. Napoleon is suddenly weary from the stress of the day, needing to concentrate to stop himself from slipping into the familiar warmth of Illya's side.

He's about to chance it, give in and slump against Illya, when he hears footsteps in Gaby's room. A few seconds later the door creaks and she pokes her head out, changed into her pajamas, going still at the sight of them.

"I...oh. Hi, Illya."

"Hello Gaby," he greets her warmly. She smiles, a faint, hesitant thing of beauty.

"Hey Gabs," Napoleon tries.

The smile withers a little. "Hey," she says after an uncertain moment. "Are you two...?"

"Come, sit." Illya pats the seat next to him. With another pause, shorter, this time, she obeys, curling up on Illya's far side, her brown eyes blinking curiously across his chest at Napoleon. "Now," Illya says, "Cowboy, you go get pizza. I think everyone needs that."

"You know I could get it delivered?"

"Yes, but I need to speak to Gaby." Illya doesn't need to say 'about you', just as Napoleon doesn't need to say anything to make clear his reluctance to leave. "Don't worry. You know, Cowboy, I can't tell her anything worse than what you already did."

That's...actually true, when he thinks about it. So he shrugs and rises, observed by a silent, watchful Gaby.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Returning twenty minutes later, Napoleon tips open the front door, tempted despite himself to see if he can catch a handful of their conversation before they hear him. But all he can make out is the low hum of Gaby's voice, which ceases as he ventures into the apartment.

"Thank God," Gaby greets him, rising from the couch and walking over. "I'm starving." Without further ceremony she grabs the boxes from his hands, padding off to the kitchen.

"So," he says as he approaches Illya, still sitting where Napoleon had left him, "good talk?"

"Yes."

Napoleon stares at Illya for a moment, but he says nothing more. Damn that man. "Anything else?" he prompts.

Illya grins. "Not telling you." There's a warm mix of teasing and reassurance in his expression, which has Napoleon's chest loosening enough for him to find some humour as he plops down next to Illya.

"Oh God, you told her all sorts of embarrassing stories about me. Gabs," he calls into the kitchen, "tell me he didn't tell you about that time in Milan."

Head poking around the door frame, Gaby just smirks at him. Napoleon groans.

They eat dinner in between comfortable ribbing and tales of past misadventures. Gaby is still sitting on Illya's other side, leaning into his shoulder as the evening progresses, just a little. By the time that Illya declares it time to leave, he's somehow been there hours.

If he weren't quite so cowardly, Napoleon might admit that he'd almost forgotten Illya has to leave; that he isn't part of their odd little household. But he can't say that, not yet, so he just trails Illya to the door and stands by while he tugs on his coat and gloves.

"Thanks for coming, Peril," Napoleon finds himself murmuring again. "You didn't have to."

Illya hums a noncommittal hum. "Didn't have to, no. Wanted to." He gazes down at Napoleon, soft, so very soft. Time slides to a quivering halt between them as they stare.

Then there's a bang from the kitchen, the ceramic clack of dishes against each other; Gaby must be tidying up. It snaps Napoleon's concentration away, and by the time he looks back Illya has started to shoulder his way through the door. Then he’s gone, leaving Napoleon alone with a Gaby who gives him a guarded look when he returns to join her in the kitchen, where she’s just put away the last of the clean dishes from the rack.

“Gabs, are you...are we okay?"

She pauses, turning to look at him. "We're...I need some time." His face must betray his panic at these words, because her eyebrows flick downwards. "It's not...All of that stuff you said, the..."

"The substance abuse, art theft, and prison time?" he provides, dry.

Gaby snorts. "That stuff. Talking to Illya helped. But I still just need some time. Okay?"

Nodding, Napoleon makes himself meet her eyes. "Okay.”

For a second longer, they just look at each other. The moment slips away as Gaby, too, disappears, down the hall, then Napoleon hears her bedroom door open and close.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The holidays come and go. Christmas is quiet, just him and Gaby, and she's never really celebrated it so it doesn't mean much to her. Ever since his confession she's been oddly distant. Not unfriendly, but he misses her, then feels stupid for it because they live together.

(They're _married_ , for God's sake.)

Yet she doesn't crawl into his bed once for nearly two weeks. Contemplating what that means makes something twist up, overtight and unhappy, in his chest.

Illya has them already back in the studio on the 27th, trying to finish up some big _Vogue_ shoot that he needs done for February. It's too damn early and Gaby is hungover from whatever party she was at until four in the morning, but Napoleon's pleas for a day off fail to move Illya. So they trek over to the studio where they find the full circus of assistants and stylists. Illya emerges from the chaos to greet them with an unsuccessful attempt to muster his scowl into a smile, then, when met with a truculent silence from Gaby, her sunglasses firmly in place, and a lukewarm response from Napoleon, leads them to a rack of clothes as he begins to pull items.

"You _can't_ be serious," Napoleon interrupts him halfway through, gesturing to the latest monstrosity, a dress of a rather sickly shade of lavender. He is, quite frankly, a bit astonished that Illya has pulled it. Even accounting for their different tastes, it still doesn't seem like something Illya would like.

"Is what the editors want," Illya grunts.

"It's hideous."

"Bold."

Sputtering, Napoleon glares at the disgrace to fashion that Illya still holds. "The colours are all wrong for her."

Illya turns on him, eyes flashing. "You don't get to have an opinion. You're not my client. You're not in charge here."

Napoleon steps closer. "I'm in charge of _her_. It's my job to make sure she looks go–"

"Excuse me?" interrupts Gaby's incredulous voice, a bit hoarse from whatever she was doing the night previous. But even if he wanted to ask, which he doesn't, Gaby keeps going. "You're 'in charge' of me?"

"Gaby..."

"Let's get one thing straight. No one is in charge of me except me." Still giving him no chance to respond, she snatches the dress from Illya's hand and stalks off to change, fury swirling in her wake.

Both men stare after her, Illya's arm still suspended in midair, holding the ghost of that awful lavender dress. Instead of screaming, Napoleon sighs.

"I thought you and she are..." Illya makes some gesture towards him, which Napoleon can't interpret clearly, "better."

"It's...complicated, Peril."

Turning back to flick through the clothes rack, Illya shakes his head. "Do you have any uncomplicated relationships, Cowboy?"

"Sure doesn't seem like it." Napoleon is so goddamn _tired_ of fucking things up with the people in his life.

Illya doesn't reply. His eyes are fixed on the clothes before him, dull and lifeless, like the very thought of working with any of it depresses him beyond measure.

"Even you hate this," Napoleon says softly, no longer pissed at Illya and instead sad for him. "This isn't the Peril I remember. The guy who would get me up at some ungodly hour of the morning just because you were so excited for the next shoot."

With a stiff roll of his shoulders that looks like an attempted shrug, Illya keeps staring at the clothes. "It's not...No, I don't love it the same way I used to. This business, it changes, the past ten years. More...commercial. No one cares about photography, the art of it, anymore."

Napoleon nods, remembering the Illya he knew ten years ago, breathlessly enthusiastic, satisfied with his work and fulfilled. It's no wonder Napoleon fell in love with him then. He couldn't have stopped himself even if he'd tried. Suddenly, more than anything he wants to see Illya like that again. Wants him to be _happy_.

"Take a break. After this shoot." He's not quite sure where he's going with this, and the look Illya gives him is confused, but Napoleon needs to say this. Needs to make this happen. "Take a month, two, six months, whatever. Get out of this damn city and do some photography just for _you_. Not for the magazine or some advertiser or any of those hacks. Just for you."

Illya's expression changes to startled. "I–I can't...I don't know."

Napoleon opens his mouth to keep convincing him, but Gaby bustles back in, cutting him off.

"Let's get this over with," she says in a voice only slightly less hoarse than before, pushing past them to stand on the backdrop. "And if someone doesn't get me a coffee soon I will start murdering people."

That's Napoleon's cue. He gives Illya a sympathetic glance, then goes to the kitchenette to rustle up some coffee, not even questioning his own automatic obedience.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm sorry, you want us to go _where_?" Napoleon asks about a month later.

"Saint Lucia," Illya replies over the phone, a bit gruff, like he was expecting to tell Napoleon that they're all flying to the Caribbean for a photoshoot and not receive any follow-up questions. "It's in–"

"I know where it is. You know, when I told you to get away for a while, I didn't mean a work trip."

"Eh, is only half work trip. Less than half. I told the editors I'd do a few photos while I'm there, but is mostly vacation. I have a place there."

It's a surprise to Napoleon as much as it is when he explains things to Gaby. He didn't even know Illya had 'a place' anywhere, let alone in the tropics. That was never a thing back when Napoleon was modeling for him.

Illya flies ahead, giving them the address of a cottage tucked away on the quieter shore of the island, homelier than might be expected for what Napoleon suspects Illya's wealth to be, but perfect for Illya himself. He greets them at the door without ceremony or any mention of the work half of their trip.

Things are still weird between Napoleon and Gaby. But with Peril as a buffer their first evening at the cottage unrolls in an easy slide. Dinner, drinks, then simply enjoying each other's company.

Just after sunset Illya emerges with a chess set; the one Napoleon gave him nine years earlier, in celebration of Illya's first spread in _Bazaar._

"You kept this?" he asks, surprised.

Flipping the board open and beginning to set up the pieces, Illya shrugs. "It's a good set."

Napoleon holds up one of the black knights, its head lopped off long before he'd scooped the set up from a filthy pawn shop in the Bronx, and then what passes for the white queen, which is an empty Kodachrome 35mm canister. It is not remotely a 'good set'. But he doesn't call Illya out on the lie.

Their first game ends quickly with Illya the victor, just as Napoleon had expected. From the armchair she's claimed for herself Gaby watches them over the rim of her glass, eyes curious.

"Rematch?" Napoleon prompts as they clear the board.

Illya grunts and starts setting the pieces back up, which Napoleon supposes counts as an answer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As the night goes on Illya tries to teach Gaby how to play chess. She puts on music and tries to teach him how to dance. Neither succeeds.

But Illya can't seem to stop staring at the little furrow Gaby gets in her brow when she glares, overly competitive and determined to _win_ , at each piece on the board in turn before making the worst possible move. And when Gaby is dragging Illya around by the wrists, telling him to just follow the beat even though Napoleon is pretty sure Illya couldn't keep a steady rhythm to a clock ticking, she grins up at him as he stares downwards and still manages to trip over both his and her feet.

"You know, he's a good dancer," Illya grunts after tripping again, jerking his head in Napoleon's direction. "He should have a turn."

Gaby's eyes narrow. If Illya is expecting her to turn to Napoleon, his plan backfires completely when she retreats to sit on the back of the sofa. "Go for it," she adds with a distinctly self-satisfied grin.

Despite himself Napoleon snickers. But if she's expecting Illya to be flustered, her plan too has backfired, because Illya fixes him with a challenging look and Napoleon grins because yeah, he remembers how this goes.

Illya always leads. It's not that Napoleon can't, but he's not sure Illya has ever followed, and besides, Napoleon is confident enough to admit that he likes being spun. Stepping into Illya's arms is effortless, the warm curl of his hand on Napoleon's waist a familiar memento, their hands twining together in practiced certainty.

Yet the years apart have changed things, too. As Illya starts a gentle sway Napoleon glances up. Illya's eyes drop away and he flushes. The shoulder under Napoleon's hand flexes, unintentionally reminding him of how much Illya has filled in over the past few years, compared to how scrawny he was before. Illya has changed his cologne at some point in their separation, too. The new one is impeccable and tasteful, it must be far more expensive. Napoleon tries not to miss the old one.

"Do you remember New Years?" Illya murmurs, interrupting his musing. "That last one, what was it, six years ago?"

"Yeah, I remember." He couldn't forget if he'd tried. Then he snorts, shame and self-directed anger doing odd things to his chest. "I was almost sober for once. Had it in my brain to quit before that fell apart again."

"You had a good week then," Illya agrees vaguely, but the reminder of his addiction doesn't seem to shake Illya out of his mood. "We went dancing that night too. That little club on Greene Street."

Napoleon nods, staring at Illya's chin. His recollections of that New Years all seem to come back to his addiction; how he spent the entire night, the third day of that brief stint at detoxing, trying to have fun, trying not to act twitchy and irritable at everything, but after the ball dropped he'd finally run out of self-control, leaving Illya with an abrupt goodbye. He'd run home, shot up, then spent the next week mired in self-loathing and getting high to distract from that, then loathing himself all the more. Why is Illya bringing this up?

"Peril, I–"

"I was so happy to be out with you again. You were almost like your old self. You were wearing this, that blue shirt you used to have? The one I always said matches your eyes. Remember that one?"

"I...yeah, actually." Napoleon blinks. He'd been so fixated on his own shame. He'd forgotten that. "I used to wear it just because I knew you liked it." He especially liked when Illya would take it _off_ him, but he doesn't say that.

Based on Illya's grin, he seems to be remembering the same thing. "Yes, I did."

"Sorry I–I kinda ditched you that night. At the end." There are many more apologies he owes to Illya but the expanse of his guilt is so vast that he can't tackle the whole thing at once. He can do this, though. This little piece of it. "If it helps, I hated myself afterwards for being so shitty to you," he tries to quip, but right away he knows it was the wrong thing to say when Illya's mouth thins.

Illya's hand tightens a little on Napoleon's waist. "Thank you for apologizing. You know I don't want you to hate yourself, yes? I didn't want that for you. I never have." Then Illya jostles their joined hands. "Now, enough of this."

Napoleon is about to question what Illya's intent but then Illya's arm goes up and the hand on his waist nudges him into a spin, twirling away only to gaze back at Illya, two arms' lengths away, smiling softly at him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later, after everyone's had a turn at dancing and separated to go to bed, Napoleon stares up at the ceiling and listens to the waves hiss against the sand. It's so quiet that he easily hears the creak of a door, light footsteps down the hall.

 _Gaby_ , his mind provides without hesitation, forcing him into a sudden awareness that he can place with absolute certainty the cadence of both Gaby and Illya's different gaits as they shuffle through the house in the night. He doesn't think he could do that for anyone else he's ever known. He's not sure how to feel about that.

After his door clicks open Gaby is staring at him, biting her lip. It's different from her nighttime visits at home, before those stopped. She doesn't have the pretense of being wasted, coming home late. She looks very hard like she's trying to recapture her usual brashness and hasn't convinced herself she's succeeding.

"Hey," Napoleon offers, scooting a bit towards the wall.

There's still uncertainty in Gaby's expression. "Sorry. I shouldn't–" For a second she almost seems to turn away.

"Your mattress too hard?"

Relief flashes across her face. "Yeah," she breathes. "Yeah. It's awful."

It's the least convincing lie Napoleon has ever witnessed, possibly apart from some of his own while he was deep in his addiction. He doesn't call her out, just flips the blanket up so she can crawl in next to him. He also doesn't call her out on the way she presses into his side, nor on the generous swath of empty mattress she could easily occupy if she wanted. His arm is wrestled into the position she wants so she can use his left shoulder as a pillow.

They lie together in silence, breaths falling in and out of sync. His arm is going a bit numb but he doesn't dare move for fear of spooking her.

"It's not the drugs that bothered me," she says suddenly. Stretching out, she pulls his hand closer, idly playing with the signet ring he usually forgets to take off before bed, twirling it around his finger in a gesture so intimately banal that Napoleon feels his heart catch on something in his chest.

"Really?"

"When I met you I was chopping up stolen cars for parts. Before that I was sometimes the one stealing them. I drink too much when I can't handle my life and I party too much because I hate being drunk alone. Wouldn't be very fair of me to judge you. But I–" Her voice goes small, then. "It's hard for me to trust people. Hard after..."

She swallows. She doesn't need to fill in the gaps for Napoleon to guess that someone who was a kid in Berlin during the war would have traumas he can't fully comprehend. The thought of that is what finally gives him the courage to reach out, his free hand finding first her shoulder and then, when she accepts that with a soft hum, her waist.

"Anyways, learning that you had this whole past, this side of you that I didn't even know. It made me realize that I'd trusted you so fast, more than anyone else in a long time, but I'd almost forgotten that we didn't...I don't know. It scared me. Not what you'd done, not even coming with you. It was that I'd let myself get this far."

Her hand goes still, no longer toying with his ring, the pad of her index finger pressing into his skin. For a terrifying moment he's certain that she's about to pull away. Instead she goes to grasp his other hand, the one hovering on her waist, then pulls it snug around herself.

"It was about me. Not about you," she concludes. "I needed time to figure my shit out. And you gave me time."

"So we're good?"

She huffs, soft, her breath making the hairs on the inside of his arm quiver. "So needy," she chides, but there's more warmth than reproval to it. "We're good. Now be quiet. I have to sleep."

 

 

* * *

 

 

They settle into an easy routine during the next week. Gaby apparently doesn't do breakfast here or doesn't do it for three; Napoleon isn't sure. Either way, Illya rises with the sun so he ends up feeding them in the mornings anyways, the three of them breakfasting out on the patio as the air warms with daylight. Gaby goes for swims off the dock, dragging Napoleon in and goading him into splash fights when she gets bored of her own company.

And Illya, the insufferable workaholic, is back to taking photos.

"Seriously, Peril?" Napoleon asks, emerging from the latest unceremonious dunking courtesy of Gaby to find a camera stuck in his face. "Can't you put that d–hey, _ow_ ," he interrupts himself as Gaby begins to climb him like a monkey up a vine. "Why are your elbows so pointy?"

"You wouldn't get hurt if you just stayed still," Gaby growls, her ascent continuing until her legs are wrapped around his chest and her arms are resting atop his shoulders. She must make a face over the top of his head because Illya huffs in amusement before taking a few more pictures of them.

"Comfy?" Napoleon asks drily. Her elbows are still digging into his shoulders.

"Not bad." She drops one arm to idly swirl through the water surrounding them, her weight shifting against his back, warm, slippery. Then she reaches up and starts combing through his hair. "It's so curly when it's wet," she marvels idly, twirling one lock around her finger.

Grinning a little despite his best efforts to be annoyed with her, Napoleon shakes his head in a halfhearted effort to dodge her ministrations. It unleashes a little flutter of shutter snaps from Illya, making him glare up at the disappointingly dry photographer.

"What's with all of the pictures, Peril?" he finally asks, determinedly ignoring whatever the hell Gaby is doing to his hair _now_. He prays to God that she's not braiding it.

Illya makes an evasive sound. "The light is good right now. Ignore me."

"You work too much, Illya," Gaby says, her fingers pausing in Napoleon's hair as she shifts again, her legs tightening around his ribs.

"I said ignore me," he insists, taking another picture, his thumb reaching up automatically to advance the reel in one smooth motion.

Humming in contemplation, Gaby leans down a little, murmuring into Napoleon's ear. "Go forward a bit."

Napoleon looks forward, sees Illya on the dock, in his shorts and t-shirt, cottoning onto Gaby's plan and trying to smother a grin as he idly steps closer, trying to make the motion look casual. "She's right, you know," he says to Illya, whose eyes narrow in suspicion. "You do work too much. C'mon, relax a little. We're on vacation." With each sentence he shuffles a bit closer in the water to the edge of the dock. Gaby is sprung tight in anticipation, her body tense against his. "Just put down the camera for a minute. For me?"

Illya bites his lip. Napoleon might've laid it on a little thick for that last plea, but it works. With a soft thunk, Illya sets the camera on the dock.

"Fine, fine, but just–"

Suddenly launching herself up, Gaby grabs Illya's arm, pulling him forwards. Illya yelps, off-balanced, and ends up hauled in with a graceless splash. A second later he emerges, blonde hair in his eyes, expression morphing between shock and indignation. Gaby dissolves into choking sobs of laughter, half climbing, half dropping off Napoleon back into the water.

"Oh my God, I can't believe that worked!" she gets out between chuckles, idly floating away from them.

Illya shakes his head, pushing the hair out of his eyes. Then his expression turns mischievous. Napoleon doesn't even have time to warn Gaby before Illya has grabbed her by the ankle and reeled her in. They both look radiant and happy. Napoleon has never wanted to kiss Illya more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Illya keeps trying to teach Gaby how to play chess. Napoleon walks into the house one day after a trip into town to find them at the kitchen table, Gaby somehow managing to sit cross-legged on her chair as she leans heavily on her elbows, frowning at the board in front of her. They both greet Napoleon, though neither stands to help him unpack groceries.

"What if I–?" Gaby begins, plucking up her queen, bringing it to hover over Illya's knight.

Illya shakes his head. "No, you see, if you do that, then I can put you in check with my bishop." His finger traces the imaginary motions of play in the air, illustrating.

"Oh." Gaby's frown deepens.

Napoleon pauses from putting the eggs in the fridge to eye the board. "You know, you could–"

"I can get it myself," Gaby huffs. As she thinks she bites her lip. Napoleon goes back to the groceries. His back is turned when she speaks again. "How about _this?_ "

"Try it."

The warm approval in Illya's tone makes Napoleon oddly nostalgic, though not for any specific moment so much as for the way he used to feel when Illya used that same tone on him. As he pivots he hears the soft clack of a chess piece touching down, sees Gaby setting her rook carefully in place.

"Now, you see, since you have done that it puts me on the defensive, because if I do not counter your castle it will leave me vulnerable to your queen." Illya pauses to assess the board, then smiles at Gaby. "That was...actually very good. You're getting better."

Gaby's returning grin of triumph is radiant, near blinding. But the way Illya gazes at her in response is impossible for Napoleon to ignore; Illya looks entranced, captivated.

Napoleon understands that feeling all too well, when he stares at Gaby, vibrant and fierce and bright.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A few mornings later Napoleon is making breakfast as Illya sits at the table, glancing around.

"Where's Gaby?"

"Still asleep."

"Walked past her room, the door was open."

Napoleon goes still, then tries to make himself not go still and ends up doing some odd shimmy of his shoulders. "She couldn't sleep so she came to visit me, fell asleep there. It's not a big deal."

"What?" The puzzlement in Illya's tone finally makes Napoleon face him.

"It's okay," he murmurs, a bit sad but reminding himself he shouldn't be. "She just likes to hang out sometimes. We're not...nothing's going on. You don't have to be j–"

Then he cuts himself off because Gaby wanders into the kitchen, her shorts short and disappearing under the hem of an oversized white t-shirt, which Napoleon knows must be either his or Illya's but he honestly can't figure out which.

"That smells good," she says, voice crackling with sleep before she clears her throat. She leans into Napoleon, pressed all along his side, and steals a couple pieces of cheese. Before he's even had time to greet her she's gone, saying she's going for a walk on the beach and slipping out the door.

Napoleon stares at the door for a second, reeling from the whirlwind of energy that she can be, about to set back to work at the stove but something in Illya's expression arrests him.

Illya shakes his head. There's an odd half smile on his face. Then he stands up, coming to look Napoleon in the eyes.

"Cowboy, out of all the men I've met," Illya sets a hand on each of Napoleon's shoulders, turning solemn, "you are absolutely the most stupid."

 

 

* * *

 

 

What Illya said shouldn't change anything. It shouldn't. Yet when Gaby slips into his bed that night, he freezes, over-aware of the tangled, ill-defined intimacy between them. While he's caught up on that she tucks against him. Normally he lies on his back, but this time he's on his side, and she adapts by backing into his chest and pulling his arm over her waist, her head cautiously settling on the muscle where his arm meets his shoulder. She takes a slow, full breath, her ribs expanding under his arm, then releases it in a warm sigh. Her shampoo smells of lavender; now, after all of these months, as familiar to him as his own. Napoleon has to force himself not to take a deep inhale.

"Gaby..." he whispers, hoarse, but he can't figure out what else to say.

She goes still in his arms.

"I...are you...?" he tries again.

With a fluid motion of her shoulders she both shrugs and turns onto her back, his arm coming to lie across the gentle curve of her stomach as she gazes over at him, eyes dark and wide. When she kisses him it's the softest he's ever known her to do anything, hesitant, gone before he's even had a proper chance to respond.

"Yeah?" he questions.

"Are you still in love with Illya?" she returns instead of answering.

After a moment, Napoleon manages to speak. "I...yeah. I am. Are you?"

"I think so."

"And are we…?"

She just hums, squirming to lay on her side again, fitting herself into the cove of his body. Napoleon adjusts the arm over her waist, aligning his body to hers, tipping his forehead to rest against the back of her head. Nothing dramatic; just a subtle slide from where they've been hovering, untethered, towards whatever happens next.

(She doesn't ask about his feelings for her, and in this moment he is immensely grateful, because he knows, has known for a while, and he doesn't think he could deny it if she pressed.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn't take long after that for everything else to fall in place. A couple of days later Illya has his camera out again, Napoleon leaning against the living room wall as those two engage in their now habitual creative process, which mostly seems to consist of locking horns until one of them—usually Illya—gives in. He can tell that Illya is searching, fumbling for some new idea which he can't quite figure out how to realize. He keeps ordering Gaby around, left, right, nothing satisfying him.

"What's wrong with you today?" Gaby asks in between shots, looking down her nose to Illya, who's crouched before her.

"Just trying...this still isn't right. I need a lower angle." Illya casts his gaze around. "You're too short," he gripes.

"You're too tall."

Illya shifts to sit on the floor, eyeing Gaby through the camera's viewfinder. Then he leans back on his elbows. Gaby just stands over him, imperious. The exact moment that Illya gets an idea, Napoleon sees him go completely still for half a second. In the next second he inches down further until he's flat on his back, looking up at Gaby.

"Stand over me," Illya tells her.

For the first time during this shoot, Gaby hesitates. Her eyes find Napoleon's. He tries not to react but she must see something in his expression, because she nods to herself and swings one leg across Illya's chest, looming like an angel of death assessing whether his time has come. Illya takes a picture with a snap, the shutter firing, and a crank, as he advances the film. Snap, crank. Snap-crank. Pausing, he peeks over the top of his camera to Gaby. Time hovers, immobile, as they lock stares. Nothing happens. No one moves. Then Gaby shifts. Slow, slow, she lowers down, down, _down_ until she's on her knees, straddling Illya's chest. Napoleon sees Illya stop breathing.

Gaby's expression goes confused, suddenly wary, like she's plunged into a new situation only to realize that she doesn't have as much of a handle on things as she'd thought she would. "Why aren't you taking pictures?" she demands of Illya.

Blinking, Illya unfreezes. "Right." Mechanically, he raises the camera to his face, pawing at the lense to find focus. Snap. His thumb goes to advance the roll but at this precise moment Gaby sways a little closer, sinking down until her haunches are resting on Illya's chest. Her eyes are dark. Illya isn't breathing again. Neither is Napoleon.

A hand reaches for Illya's camera, manicured nails engulfing the barrel of the lens to free it from Illya's grasp before setting it aside, the hollow thud of it gently landing on the floor becoming deafening in the tense silence. Gaby's hand wanders back up, landing on Illya's shoulder, pinning him down. Illya swallows thickly.

Everyone lets out a noise when Gaby swoops down and seals her lips to Illya's. Napoleon can't quite remember how to breathe. Then Illya, after a moment of paralyzed ecstasy, sets one hand on Gaby's hip. As they continue Napoleon bites his lip, glancing away, unsure where he fits in here, or if he even fits in at all. Gaby kissed him, yes, but they hadn't talked about things, so he didn't know...

"Are you just going to stand there?"

Freezing at Illya's voice, Napoleon looks back up. Two pairs of canny eyes are watching him. Nothing happens for a second. Then Gaby makes some motion, not even a gesture, something so small that, if asked, Napoleon couldn't describe it; more of a shift in posture, or in the air currents between them. Yet her meaning is inescapable. Her eyes are bright and unwavering. Illya's just the same, staring, too, at him.

Napoleon steps closer.

Gaby and Illya grin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A few months later, Napoleon frowns as he stands before the mirror, tugging at his shirt. "I don't know about this."

"Looks good," Illya tells him, stepping behind him to fix the shoulders of the shirt, pulled askew by Napoleon's fussing. "Suits you."

"I just don't think orange is my colour."

Finished fixing his shirt, Illya immediately undoes those efforts by looping his arms around Napoleon's waist from behind, resting his chin against Napoleon's temple, the shirt rumpling again as it's disrupted by the contact. "I like it." Then, when Napoleon makes a skeptical noise. "Gaby, what do you think?"

"I think that you should know better by now than to ask me anything before I've finished my first coffee," comes the grumbly response from the bed.

"C'mon, I know you have opinions," Napoleon wheedles, turning to eye her propped up against the headboard of Illya's—no, it's _theirs_ now—decadent king-sized bed, a steaming mug clutched tightly between her palms.

Her eyes give him a sweep, as the resolve in her expression softens. Though he doubts she'll ever admit it, he knows she finds him persuasively cute. "It's good. Modern."

"So, it's settled, then," declares Illya, pulling his own outfit from the closet, a soft blue sweater that's become Gaby's favourite to steal, as summer turns to autumn and the evenings grow chilly. Some days Napoleon fights her for it. This is the first time in weeks he's actually seen Illya get to wear it.

"That clashes with mine," Napoleon points out. They're supposed to be going to a brunch together, the invitation extended to all three of them, their triad quietly becoming known to the New York fashion scene. "Especially—Gabs, what are you wearing?"

She makes a reluctant noise then hauls herself out of bed, shuffling over to her side of the closet to flip carelessly through the hangers of couture samples she's acquired, pausing with a shift dress, white with green sides. It clashes even worse with his orange shirt, but he's learned by now that while Illya can be reasoned with, once Gaby decides something it's decided.

"We won't match," Napoleon sighs as she slips to stand in front of him and Illya, the three of them all squeezing in to view themselves in the mirror. He wonders if it's true about more than just their clothes. Some days they aren't a perfect match. Gaby will always be stubbornly independent, Illya a bit clingy, and Napoleon has the odd bad day, still, when he itches for a fix and turns snappish with everyone around him.

But they've been working through it. Gaby has learned to phone home when she'll be out late. Thanks to that, Illya has stopped climbing the walls when she's gone most of the night. And on Napoleon's bad days he's begun telling them, achingly, reluctantly at first, that he needs help, needs them to be a bit softer with him, a bit kinder, and miracle of miracles, they listen.

Illya's arms move forward again, one curling around Napoleon's waist again, the other finding Gaby's shoulders. When he speaks, his voice is low and warm and certain.

"We don't have to match."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks**  
>  So, it's only been * _checks calendar_ * 8 months since I said I'd have this finished. I really can't thank Saathi enough for the exceptional amounts of patience you've shown with my update schedule. 
> 
> To my beta, you are amazing, I cherish you, etc etc
> 
> And to Kathi and Shoes, thank you for keeping me going in this fandom.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Research**  
>  A big shout-out to Michael Gross's book _Focus: The Secret, Sexy, Sometimes Sordid World of Fashion Photographers_. It's not academic, but it gave me a good overview of the major players at the time. So thank you to my public library! Also thank you to the MoMA's website.
> 
>  **History**  
>  This fic is very obviously a work of fiction. However, whenever possible I've tried to keep it tethered to the real NYC fashion scene in 1963. Pretty much all of the names mentioned, even in passing, are references to real people who were active at the time. And because I'm a research nerd, I can't resist giving few notes on that:
> 
>   * The "Kenneth" mentioned in chapter 1 is a reference to hairstylist Mr. Kenneth, aka Kenneth Battelle, who was arguably the first ever celebrity hairstylist, and who was in NYC around this time period. 
>   * As mentioned in chapter 1, the Judson Dance Theatre was a real group who were hugely revolutionary in post-modern dance, which Napoleon mistakenly calls modern dance (I figured he may not be 100% current on the terminology). On that note, the "Simone" whom Gaby says she met is a reference to Simone Forti, an extremely influential dancer, artist, choreographer, etc in Postmodernism. Forti was present in NYC during 1963 and involved with JDT. 
>   * The party at which Napoleon danced on a table and subsequently broke his hand, from chapter two, is hosted by "Dick", referring to Richard Avedon, who hopefully requires no further introduction but, just in case, is one of the most legendary fashion photographers in history. 
>   * In Chapter 2 Gaby tells Illya "Allegra said Bert plays music in his studio". This is Allegra Kent and Bert Stern, model/muse and photographer, who were in a notoriously tempestuous marriage at the time. Illya then begins to make a retort about Bert but cuts himself off, looking at Solo. Bert Stern was also notoriously addicted to amphetamines, like Solo had been prior to getting clean. 
>   * Illya says, re his photos of Gaby, "Liberman liked the photos, and Diana agreed." This refers to Alexander Liberman, who was editorial director at Condé Nast, the publisher of _Vogue_ , and Diana Vreeland, who had recently defected from _Harper's Bazaar_ to become editor in chief for _Vogue_ , during a period when _Vogue_ was ascendant, becoming the dominant fashion magazine over the then-fading _Bazaar_. Functionally, this means that Illya was likely on contract with _Vogue_ , as the top photographers at the time were often exclusive to one magazine. 
>   * The man who was Napoleon's drug dealer, who he says was "a real doctor", and who told Napoleon that the amphetamines he was being sold were "vitamins" is Dr. Robert Freymann, who was, indeed, a licensed medical doctor (he later lost his license) and who was in real life, Bert Stern's dealer, and pulled pretty much the exact shit on him that he does to Napoleon. 
>   * On a lighter note, when Napoleon tells Illya "You know I could get [pizza] delivered?", pizza deliver was actually a relatively new concept at the time, so this might have been less sarcastic and more a genuine reminder than you'd think. 
>   * Illya's artistic dissatisfaction was also period appropriate, a sentiment growing in the '60s, among established photographers, that fashion photography had become too commercialized and artistically null. 
>   * More generally, I've tried to make all of the photography accurate, based on my own darkroom experience. 
>   * And finally, _jolie laide_ (lit. "pretty-ugly") is a real concept, rising in popularity at the time, applied to female models who tended towards "unconventionally attractive" appearances. The term "Vogue girls" was also used. Funnily, despite Illya saying she was "not exactly jolie laide [...] just jolie" [pretty], Gaby might well have been described as jolie-laide, since as best I can tell the term was at the time applied to those had even a slight hint of angularity to their features or a slightly square jaw. Beauty standards are weird. 
> 



End file.
